Chapter Twelve

  On The Third Day

  Gideon sat watching the boy while he slept. He was a young man, really, and not all that much younger than Gideon himself. The difference between man and boy was measured in the pain endured over a lifetime and in the deeds won. If that was true, then this boy was well on his way to manhood after the day before. The young man’s name was Will. He had taken a hit from the shrapnel of a cannon ball, which had hit the bridge and exploded well in front of the platoon. Most of the shards had bounced over them. Gideon had taken a few small burning shards of shrapnel, nothing serious. He had dug the hot shards out of his arm with his bayonet. The talker, the boy named Tommy, who had been on Will’s other side, had escaped harm entirely. The man standing in the row behind Will had been torn to shreds and died on the spot. That had been one of Gideon’s friends, a Black City man named Barner. Will had been hit in the head and had his arm shredded below the elbow. The surgeons had taken what was left of the arm and wrapped his head in bandages, and now he lay unconscious on a cot in the medical tent. The tent was full of men after the bloody day before. Few were as bad off as Will. Lieutenant Albans lay nearby, awake but silent, staring at the ceiling. Albans was a good officer, though now his days as a cavalry lieutenant were certainly done. A man could not ride in a cavalry charge on one leg. In the lull between attacks, men had each taken a watch to sit with the wounded soldiers. Young Tommy had taken a double watch to sit with Will. Gideon’s watch was nearly done. Will groaned, and his eyes fluttered as if he might wake, but then he drifted back to unconsciousness.

  Flint walked through the tent flaps, “Oi, Gideon, you’re needed.”

  He turned to his sergeant and saluted. There was no finer Sergeant, as far as Gideon was concerned. He followed Flint out of the tent. It was nearly dawn outside the tent, and the first light was warming the horizon, “Another attack, Sarge?” He asked as they walked.

  “No,” Flint said little unless it needed saying or he was shouting at troopers.

  The sergeant strode towards the command tent instead of returning to Albans’ Company. Guards nodded to Flint as they went inside. Colonel Havor sat in his chair, sipping tea. Major Dryden, the sorcerer Mar, Captain Brine, and the famous hunter Connall Baine were all seated around a local area map, apparently talking strategy. Flint and Gideon snapped crisp salutes and stamped their feet when they entered.

  “Aye, we’re here, as requested, sir,” Flint said as he stood, his hand at his forehead.

  Havor gave a lazy salute back to them, “Be at ease, both of you.”

  It was hard for Gideon to be at ease around these men. They were gentlemen and officers. He was a lowly common trooper. Still, he tried to affect a more relaxed countenance. It was hard, however, with Dryden sitting and watching him intently. He had once pulled a sword on Dryden. It had been on pure foolish instinct. Dryden had picked him up and tossed him to the ground while he was having his way with a local girl. He understood now that he had been wrong to do it to the girl. He had not been the first and had done it egged on by other foolish young men. Then, for the crime of pulling a blade on a superior officer, he had been hung. He had felt the life choking out of him, his vision fading, clawing at the rope which burned his neck with friction. Then, blessedly, he had felt himself fall. He had gasped for breath, coughed, and been unable to talk for days. Even now, when he spoke, he could feel the gravel in his voice, a reminder of his sins. It was not hate, anger, or resentment that made it hard to meet Dryden’s gaze, rather it was the shame of his great mistakes. He had let down the greatest man he knew of, the most noble and honourable Major Dryden. The man who had led them into Dau, fought a demon, and led them out alive. He was the man who had brought vengeance for Vastrum, rescued the prisoners, and taken the city of Vurun, charging single-handedly ahead of the rest. The enemy had fled before him. Gideon had let him down. For that, he could not forgive himself.

  “You’re being promoted.” Havor said matter of factly, “Both of you.”

  There was silence. He could see that Flint was silently fuming. Gideon was taken aback. He had not expected anything of the sort. He counted himself lucky that he was still breathing. He scratched at the old scar on his neck. “Sir?” Gideon asked, confused.

  “We lost Albans yesterday. We do not have a battle-tested officer to replace him. Flint, like it or not, you’re receiving a battlefield commission.”

  “What about Mallick or Longview?” Flint asked.

  “I will not deprive Adams’ squadron when I have a perfectly good candidate right before me.” Havor insisted, “If you’re worried about the money, do not. It will be taken care of. It is no longer a choice I am giving you, Mr. Flint. Congratulations.”

  Flint frowned but jutted his chin with a bit of pride, “Thank you, sir.”

  “Gideon. You will take over as sergeant under Flint.” Havor said next.

  “Sir.”

  “No complaints?” Havor asked.

  “I’m surprised, is all.” Gideon replied, “But no, no complaints.”

  “Surprised?”

  “After what happened in Ladash.” He said, glancing momentarily at Major Dryden.

  “Ahh, well, it was Dryden who recommended you. It was a mistake many soldiers have made before you, Gideon. Many will make it after. Aside from Ladash, your service has been exemplary. Every officer you’ve served under has written that you behaved as a leader in the platoon. Men make mistakes in life. They ought to get second chances when they prove they have changed, don’t you agree?” Havor asked.

  “I suppose so, Colonel.” Gideon nodded.

  “Here.” Dryden tossed a badge to each man—a lieutenant’s for Flint, a sergeant’s chevron for Gideon, “I don’t have pauldrons for you, Flint. That will have to do for now. You’ve an officer’s pistol?”

  Flint shook his head.

  “Have mine,” Dryden said, handing his pistol to the newly promoted lieutenant.

  Brine stood, stepped forward, and extended his hand, “Congratulations to both of you.”

  They all shook hands. Havor pulled a bottle from his saddlebags, which sat beside him on the floor, “Care for a celebratory drink?”

  “Too early for me, sir,” Flint said.

  “For me, too.” Gideon agreed, “I like to fight sober.”

  “About that. Pugh is out there now, watching the bridge. He told me earlier that he thinks the main force of Rhakan has yet to arrive at the bridge. He expects it today.”

  “That was just the van we’ve been mucking about with?” Flint said, almost disbelieving.

  “Indeed.” Havor said, “Unfortunate, but true nonetheless. We may have to blow the bridge before long.”

  Dryden cut in, “It is a foregone conclusion in Pugh’s estimation. I must say that I concur. When we do destroy it, I suspect Baine’s Crossing will be the primary action. I visited two other possible crossings with Mr Baine, none nearly as passable, and we’ve had the Jirimanji scouts up the river thirty miles looking for more fords over the Brurapura. This will be where they try next. Captain Khathan defends it now.”

  It was Havor’s turn to speak, “Nevertheless, we must hold as long as we can. Haddock is coming up behind. We had a messenger yesterday. Haddock’s letter said he had sent the 2nd Hussars and two troops of the King’s Horse Artillery. That’s 12 6-pounders between both troops. They should be here in days, not weeks.”

  “What’s that got to do with us?” Flint said, meaning he and Gideon, “You do the commanding, we do the fighting, eh?”

  “As the ones doing the fighting, it has everything to do with you. I want you front and centre again,” Captain Brine replied, “It was a damn good showing yesterday, and we are asking for more of the same. We know it is a hardship, and you ought to know what the sacrifice is for.”

  “We lost some good men, sir. Why not let some of Adams’ boys take a turn at the bridge,” Flint asked.

  Havor answered, “I wouldn’t trust Adams to hold, frankly. He’s got most of the raw recruits. I want Black City men up front.”

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  Gideon was surprised at the candour of the colonel. He wasn’t sure he disagreed about the quality of the men. It was bloody work standing in there on the bridge, though. Many units would have fled in the face of artillery. The men were exhausted. He knew it was his job to speak for them as sergeant. “The men are tired after yesterday, sir. It was a long, bloody day.”

  “It was. Give us one more day like that, and we’ll give them a rest, Sergeant. If we slow the Rhakan advance even a few days, it could make all the difference.”

  “If you spend all the Black City men now, there’ll be none for later,” Flint growled.

  “Flint…” Brine began to reprimand his newly promoted lieutenant.

  Dryden raised a hand to stop the captain from speaking, “It’s a fair point that needs answering. If we lose this crossing, Serg… Lieutenant, there is a good chance we will lose the war. Losing this war threatens the eastern colonies, Ayodh and Dravan in particular. Lose them, and Vastrum herself is threatened. Victory is often won in the frugal spending of good lives. I would not throw them away, but if there was ever a time to spend them for a good cause, this is it. Hold the bridge, Lieutenant, but do not spend the men frivolously.”

  “Aye, sir,” Flint replied.

  “Brine, if the situation is dire, pull the men back and light the fuse,” Havor added.

  Brine nodded at his commander, “Understood.”

  “One last thing, who do you want for Sergeant Major, Lieutenant Flint?” Brine asked.

  “Sergeant Steele,” Flint said without hesitation.

  “Done.”

  “Go hold that bridge, Lieutenant.” Havor said, “Brine will be along shortly. Dismissed.”

  The two men saluted, turned on their heels, and left the tent. Gideon knew he should be elated at the promotion, but he was not. It didn’t mean less danger. It meant more, if anything. The added responsibility fell heavy on him. He had men to care for now.

  Flint spoke as they walked back to the men, “Don’t bully them just to bully them, eh?”

  “Sir?” He asked, unsure how to respond.

  “You’ll have to shout at ‘em, swear and curse and maybe beat a few down. You’ll give ‘em the hard jobs when they fuck up. You’ll have to pick them up from the foxhole and throw them towards the enemy. They are unruly bastards, the lot. Terrible drunks, fighters, shit-kickers, and worthless scum, all.”

  “Was I so bad, sir?”

  Flint laughed, “You were the worst of the worst, Gideon. You’re going to hate them and love them, both. They’re terrible cunts, but they’re your children now. Yours to care for. You scream, hit, and punish to let ‘em know when they’ve done wrong. The lads don’t understand kindness. They’re hard boys from the low side, like us. A bad sergeant ballyrags with no cause. I’ve had a few of those in my day. A good sergeant is the toughest bell-bastard of the lot, and he’s got reason behind his cruelty. It’s why, out of all the rotten gullions in the Bloody 13th, I picked you for my replacement.”

  Somewhere on the other side of the river, a cannon fired. The shot hit the bank of the river, flying up and away. A second shot came in and hit the gatehouse. A piece of the edifice crumbled sideways onto the riverbank. The lookout atop it seemed largely unharmed but began scrambling down. A few moments later, a third shot came flying in and hit one of the small domed chhatris on the bridge, which exploded outward in a shower of stone fragments. Men all across the approach to the bridge, on both sides of the road and the ramp, dove into trenches, foxholes, ditches, and anything that would provide cover. It appeared the bulk of the enemy artillery had finally arrived. Flint and Gideon ran towards the cover of the bridge’s approach. The day before, no shot had hit that spot, as the incline up to the bridge and the sturdy stone gatehouse provided excellent cover.

  Major Pugh kneeled off to one side behind the gatehouse, peering around the corner with his spyglass. “Congratulations to the both of you,” He said without looking up as they approached. “They’re going to soften us up before they try again. Find some cover. Get the men prepared. We’ve good cover at the low point here before the bridge. They’ll figure that out soon enough, and when they do, I expect they’ll throw everything they have at us.”

  The roar of a dragon sounded in the distance. Gideon had seen the one on the first day flying above the bridge. It had been a vast dragon, gold, green, and jungle-dark—scales shining in the sun. It might have seemed magnificent had it not been coming to kill them. Mar had driven it off with his magic. Gideon had heard it roar in pain, seen it writhe in the air and then swoop away like lightning. He had wondered when it would return. He wished never to see the drake again, but he knew better than to hope. Hope had left him when he had seen Dau. All his darkest nightmares manifest in the void of that great yawning pit. He remembered the many-eyed demon flowing through the smoke and shadow, taking men until Dryden and the wizards had wounded it. Few things scared him once he had seen that—maybe that dragon was one of them.

  More cannon fired. They were big guns, Gantish 12-pounders, by their sound and impact. The day before, the guns had been lighter, maybe 6-pound cannonballs, 8 at most. He knew they were in for it. If they’d had the support of their own artillery, they could hold. Vastrum had the benefit of reliable and plentiful artillery. But they had none with them. They had travelled light to make the bridge in time. You could not ride 40 miles a day while dragging cannons with you. Another shot whizzed in far to the right, hitting one of Adams’ trenches. Gideon hunched down near the gatehouse and hazarded a peek across the bridge. Enemy soldiers were preparing to cross. He and his men would be in it soon enough. Somewhere off on the right flank where the trench had been hit, a man was screaming about his leg. There would be a lot of that today. The surgeons would be busy, and that medical tent would fill fast. The enemy was on the bridge now, marching across it in formation. When the shooting started, the formation would crumble, and they would come in a howling mass. There seemed many more than the day before. The main force that Pugh was worried about seemed to have arrived. It was time to kill them.

  “All right, form up! Two ranks!” Flint shouted over the din. Sergeant Steele lifted the bugle to his lips and blew the call to arms.

  Men rushed to line up across the bridge just in front of the gatehouse. Flint strolled up like it was a spring Sunday morning and he was out for a sashay in the park. Gideon growled, found some courage, and stood. He was the sergeant now, and he had to be the hardest man of the lot. He couldn’t be the last man up. Flint started to bellow his orders, then paused, remembered his new role, turned to Gideon and said, “Prepare to fire.”

  The words came to Gideon like he’d said them all his life, “All right, boys, load your muskets! Set your sights to 100 yards!”

  He knew the drill. He’d been through it hundreds, maybe thousands of times before. They had practised once a week, every week when they weren’t at war, with real ammunition. He’d been through dozens of skirmishes and a few big battles in his career, too. He knew the rhythm of the firing line like he’d been born to it. Most of these men knew it, too. Even Young Tom did. It took just a short while for the muskets to be loaded.

  “First rank, present!” He screamed at them.

  “Fire!” Flint yelled.

  Muskets roared, and the front of the enemy fell. Then, the second rank fired. Then the first again. The ranks alternating, reloading and firing. The enemy still came, though slowly. The bridge was thick with them. Cannon shots fell around them. Shrapnel ripped through a man on the right. He was dragged back and replaced by a new man. Private Collins stepped in, another Black City man, a hook-nosed Marrowick boy that Gideon had come up with. His face was grim, but he did his duty.

  Then Gideon saw it—the drake. The sun was behind it, and its shadow fell across the platoon. The dark shape of the dragon seemed to swim through the air, its wings and serpentine shape rippling across the sky towards them. Gideon’s breath caught in his throat. The enemy was swarming forward by the hundreds—fresh soldiers who had arrived in the night. Raking fire from Benton’s position hit the bridge full of enemy soldiers, and many fell. The bridge was piled with dead from two hard days of fighting. But the soldiers and the dragon were still coming. The cannon shot was still hitting near them, blessedly most missing its mark.

  “Keep firing, damn you!” Flint shouted.

  Gideon realized that the men had stopped firing. They had all seen the dragon and frozen. “You heard the lieutenant!” Gideon roared, “Who told you to stop shooting, you muggy bastards! Fire! Reload!”

  The men resumed firing, and the rhythm of the line continued. The Rhakani soldiers died upon the bridge. He could see the dragon coming in low. The men wavered again. Most of these men were veterans, solid boys. Maybe half of them had seen Dau, and the rest were good Andaban men. Even the toughest men like Collins wavered in the face of the drake.

  A voice came from behind him. He was nearly deaf from the firing line. All sound was muted. But this voice seemed to speak straight into his mind. It was Mar. “I hear you’ve got a dragon problem?” Gideon turned and saw him smoking one of his cigarettes—the wizard exhaled indigo smoke from his nose. His gold eye was glassy. His dark beard and pale, scarred face looked almost haggard. He muttered some words under his breath, pointed his cigarette at the dragon like a wand, and the dragon screamed. Gideon saw the drake’s bat-like wings tear apart in bloody ribbons. Mar grimaced as he did it. Then, suddenly, the dragon fell, a gout of flame erupting from its mouth. It hit the bridge like a ten thousand pound burning stone, dropping among the Rhakanese soldiers.

  “Get down!” Pugh cried, “The fire!”

  Gideon turned and tackled Mar down the slope. They could not lose the wizard. Flint and the rest of the men dove for cover. The bridge blew as the dragon’s fire touched off the powder Wolfgang and his sappers set. A chain of blasts ripped through the bridge from where the dragon had hit. Each of the bridge’s dozen supports had its own charge, and each was set off in turn. The great bridge, which had stood for a thousand years, exploded in a great blast of stone, fire, and charred corpses. Men who had not ducked in time were thrown back as shockwaves tossed stones and enemy soldiers through the air. Chunks of stone rained down. A huge piece landed not three yards from Gideon and Mar. A falling stone crushed one trooper thirty yards from the bridge. Pieces of the dragon rained down, too. After a few moments, all was silent again. Gideon and Mar extricated themselves from one another and stood looking at the destruction. His ears rang, and all sounds were muffled. His right ear especially had gone nearly deaf as it had been turned towards the firing line. Through the smoke, they could see the bridge was gone. Only remnants of the great thick stone supports and gatehouses at either end remained as a testament to there once having been a bridge. Wolfgang had done his job well.

  Flint and Pugh were checking on the men. Gideon and Mar joined them, helping men to their feet and checking on the wounded. Sergeant Major Steele stood by with blood seeping from a head wound where a shard of stone had cut him. He held a cloth to stem the flow and waved off help.

  Once all was quiet, the men stood around staring at the destruction. They could see the tiny figures of the Rhakanese doing the same, looking back at them, staring at where the bridge had stood. So many enemies had been upon it when it blew. Gideon wondered how many had died in the blast. Hundreds certainly.

  Major Pugh said something with a smirk. Nobody could hear him.

  “What?” Mar shouted, “Can’t bloody hear.” He pointed to his ears.

  Pugh turned and repeated himself, shouting, “That answers that question.” He grinned, “It appears dragons do breathe fire.”